


Fatal Mistakes

by Welp



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, But there will be comfort in the next part, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, No editing we die like mne, Restraints, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 15:13:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21304154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welp/pseuds/Welp
Summary: They pin one of his hands to the side of the chair, and Dick knows it’s over.  His head is aching from the blow he took after entering the warehouse, vision swimming and temples throbbing. But he feels the leather strap pull taut around his wrist, the pin slipping into place.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48





	Fatal Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I read a lot of whump fics, but this is my first real foray into the genre. I'm excited to read your reactions! Next chapter should be up by the end of the week. Don't worry, I'll make up for the suffering I've caused with a rescue and some comfort in the next one.
> 
> Warnings for descriptions of being tied down and gagged, language, and canon-typical violence.

They pin one of his hands to the side of the chair, and Dick knows it’s over. His head is aching from the blow he took after entering the warehouse, vision swimming and temples throbbing. But he feels the leather strap pull taut around his wrist, the pin slipping into place. 

His pupils blow wide. He panics. His whole body arches away from the chair, feet kicking out at the bodies surrounding him. Foot connects with flesh, and he hears a grunt of pain. He screams, yells, insulting the figures he can only barely make out in the dark. 

The constant throb in his head is overwhelming; he’ll fight anyway. He’s missing some time, he thinks, unsure where he is. But he’s sure he didn’t start this mission alone. He remembers Tim, crouched beside him as they staked out the drug lord. B’s gravelly voice in his ear. He keeps screaming. Someone has to be nearby, listening. They need a chance to find him.

His foot hits another mark. “Fucking damnit,” one of the bodies yells. Dick, vision still fuzzy, uses the voice to locate the man again. He reels his leg back to kick again, careful to aim for the face. 

It’s a fatal mistake. 

His attention is too singular. His foot hits his mark a second time, but while he’s distracted, another set of hands grabs tight to his wrist. Balance lost to the wrist already secured, Dick can’t recover. His wrist is forced down to the arm of the chair. A voice barks somewhere over his shoulder, “Quick.” A second must be waiting. The leather is swiftly and methodically secured. His body slumps, defeated, against the chair. Whoever’s at the foot of the chair makes quick work of his legs, now that he’s lost all chance of freeing himself even if he were to keep fighting. Another pulling a thick strap around his middle, pinning him down. 

It’s time to change tactics. Dick’s heaving chest strains against the restraint, just above his navel and under his chest, unable to catch his breath. The reality of the situation is settling around him. They can do anything to him. Hurt him, torture him. Pull off his mask and take a picture. This could destroy him, his whole family. The leather digs through the kevlar wrapping his skin. He lets his head flop to the side, picking one of the figures at random. He tries to force his eyes to focus on one of their faces. Eye contact is always better. 

“All tied up with nowhere to go, huh? You know, if you wanted a face to face you could have just texted. Emailed. There’s easier ways to reach me.”

No one responds. They start moving around him, jumping off to their own tasks. Now that he’s not desperately trying to claw his way out of the chair, he can focus enough to try and count the number of people. There’s two murmuring voices somewhere off in the corner, too soft for him to make out the words. The one he tried to speak with is checking the restraints, tugging the leather to make sure it stays put. He hears the tinkle of metal dropping against metal, somewhere behind his head. He places the sound as the one he hears at the dentist’s office; fine silver tools hitting a metal plate, preparing for something. He brushes over it, can’t let himself give in to panic yet. Not when he doesn’t know where he is, what they want. He adds the information to his mental list, like he’s prepping the draft for his mission report later; four or five captors, unclear motive. 

Something cold touches his wrist, and Dick jerks, his whole body tensing in the restraints. The man is using a thick pair of scissors to slice through the kevlar sleeves of the Nightwing suit. “What are you doing?” Dick’s panic comes out of his mouth unbidden, horrified at the strip of his arm now exposed to the air, to whoever these maniacs are that have him strapped down and helpless, getting larger with every snip, snip, snip. Even he can hear the slur to his words, his head continuing to throb. He tries to save face, mask the terror in his voice. “This is designer, can’t just buy this number at any department store. Are you willing to pay the tailor for the repairs?” 

The man doesn’t respond to the quip, but his face briefly wrinkles in agitation. The scissors stop, and Dick watches as he looks up, calling over to the two voices in the corner. “He’s not gonna stop talking. They’ve always said he’s the annoying one. Can we sedate him for this?” 

“No need for that,” Dick says quickly, and it's getting harder to disguise how completely freaked he is at this entire situation. He flexes his arms and tries to tug at the straps again, even though he knows at this point that it’s useless. “Nope, don’t need to be sedated. I love being awake and quiet, I’d love the opportunity to do that for a while.” He’s crossed the line where sarcasm stops masking panic and starts highlighting it instead. He jerks his body again as he rambles, straining as hard as he can against the chair holding him down.

The man standing over him sweeps his hand through the air, palm out. See what I mean? he’s asking. The room goes silent.

The voice from the corner speaks up. “They want him conscious, for when the boss gets here. Use the gag for now.”

Shit.

The man standing over him nods, motioning to one of the people behind his head. Dick strains his head back, trying to lift his eyes to see whats happening, but he can’t twist his head enough. He puts too much pressure on whatever injury is spread across the back of his head and pain makes fireworks explode in front of his eyes. He cries out as his vision goes black, for a moment. He blinks the spots away to see a hand reaching out from behind his head, passing a black monstrosity of rubber and metal over him. The man he can see puts down the scissors to grab it. 

That’s not a gag, that’s a fucking muzzle. Dick was close to losing it before, but now he completely gives himself over to his panic. He won’t let himself be muzzled like a dog, strapped down and motionless. He can’t give up the last shred of control they’ve left him. A stream of curses come flooding out of his mouth, his muscles jerking as he tries once again to make the leather budge, the chair fall over, anything to delay what he fears is inevitable. 

The man stops fiddling with the straps and Dick slams his mouth shut, as tight as he can. Expecting this, a from behind him wraps around the head of the chair to clamp around his jaw, squeezing into the joint, at the same time the muzzle is forced closer to his face. The pain around his jaw becomes too much and his mouth is forced open. Quick as as blink, the rubber piece forces its way between his teeth, pushing his tongue unnaturally out of the way. He gags and splutters, trying to find some relief from the nausea that’s now rolling through his stomach. The muzzle wraps around the bottom half of his face, the edge of the metal digging into his cheeks painfully as the straps click into place.

The man mutters a quick, “Thanks,” to his colleague before picking up the scissors again. Dick squeezes his eyes shut. He has to calm down. He has to control his breathing, ragged through the nose holes punched into the metal. Or else he’s going to choke on the goddamn gag reaching towards the back of his throat. The metal surrounding his face is so tight, it's making his teeth to dig into the rubber so hard that they ache, jaw forced immobile like the rest of his body.

Snip, snip, snip. The scissors move up his arm, and the material is ripped away up to his shoulder. Dick can’t even try to stop him anymore.


End file.
